


deadlock

by keyblade



Series: ways to unlock a door ( deadlock AU ) [1]
Category: Kingdom Hearts
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Body Horror, Childhood Friends, Friends to Lovers, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, Slow Burn, Timeline What Timeline, author plays jumprope w/ the timeline, wayfinder trio meets when terra + aqua are like 5/6 and ven is babey. hes just a babie
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-12
Updated: 2019-07-04
Packaged: 2019-11-16 03:30:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18086636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keyblade/pseuds/keyblade
Summary: "What are you talking about?""Oh, you wouldn't remember. When you were little... you formed a special bond with a boy named Vanitas. And because of that, he joined with your heart."-minor BBS roleswap au, wherein sora initially heals vanitas' heart instead.





	1. would you like to try again?

**( ? )**

* * *

 

 

In the distance, a black tower. It has been left in dregs, hollow; horribly cut apart, like some butcher took a knife to the building and carved it down to the architectural skeleton.

The foundation tilts upon impact. Suddenly, in the mannerism of a staccato, his body crumbles. A young boy who lacks a face collapses against the dark tile. In this space, he can’t grasp a good sense of time, sensation; he can’t recognize anything outside of the blinding white. The emotion that jolts him is nightmarish, in the vaguest sense of terror curling up in the intestines and staying there. But he can’t rationalize as to why he is so horrified. Should he be screaming, crying? Is the burn in his hands an actual wound or an imagined ache? Although the floor is very cold, it doesn’t ease the pounding in his head.

_It’s so bright_ , he thinks. _Where am I? What’s going on?_

His palms are shaking, badly. Ever so gently he rests one-two-three fingertips to the nearest crack and the responding jolt is so bad it ruptures his spine. With a groan, he rests on his right side. With every jostle, the hurt within his body expands. Yet, the pain doesn’t hurt how he thinks an injury does. The intensity isn’t alarming. Rather, it’s all-consuming. It strikes him down to his core and the pain’s edge is so sharp and long it run through every point of the body until it finally rests at… what could only be a fragment of heart.

_Oh. My heart is a splinter_. How he got fractured, to this extent, anyway, is a mystery. He’s dead, then. Probably. If this is purgatory, it sucks ass, and if it isn’t, this is rather unexpected for eternal damnation. It’s unfortunate he can’t move anymore as he’s got the strangest urge to laugh. In contrast, he hears the cadaver that is his heart cry out. No one is around to help.

Maybe he’s not dead. He can’t be dead because a dead heart can’t wail, can it? Does it? Is that contradictory, to a muscle inside to contract when the body is still?

Maybe he’s just dying.

Slowly, he notes, he’s dying _very_ slowly. Fitting for a - _an empty_ \- creature like him. His chest splutters out like a sieve. The boy watches in keen, if morbid, fascination as his skin begins to ooze apart from of his ribcage. There are globs of it, malformations separating themselves from the bone. Passing away like this must be very very slow, he imagines, slow as molasses. It’s going to take an eternity for nerves to remove themselves from bone, and thensome for marrow to seep out of those sheens. His anatomy and nature of deceasing is unkind.

Something cold shudders through him. He gets the sudden feeling that he’s being watched. Across the vast atmosphere, a golden comet makes its grand descent to the boy’s heart. Actually, it streaks far below the summit; the star swirls down until it reaches the pit. As though it’s … taking in the full extent of pain.

_Who’s there? I don’t want you to go. But how can anyone else be here -_  

The star circles the last two stories lazily before it rises to face him. His hands - if only it was possible to still move his hands - quake. Upon realizing his inability to move, the light comes to him. It curls between the space of his neck and his shoulder. Close enough to brush, but not fully touch.

“You’re not alone anymore,” someone murmurs to what could’ve been his ear.

Don’t leave; it’s less of a thought and more wholly a desire so it goes unvoiced. But it sings throughout his chest; don’t leave me, don’t leave me. _How did you find me,_ is what he says.

“The darkness… I saw it cut through the light. I followed it and it brought me to you. What happened?" 

_I_ \- he stutters, trying to think of an explanation. Trying to remember why. He settles on the most obvious reason. _I was fractured._

“And for your heart to be appear this way, it seems that your darkness was the strongest part of you. Tearing the two apart… it’s of little wonder of how you ended up like this.” There’s a familiar tone in their words. Melancholy.

That previous elation melts. It bubbles into anger within seconds.

_Who are you? Why are you here?_

“I’m someone who has yet to be born,” the voice sighs, the exhale deep. “And here, within the realm between, I could hear your cries. So, I guess you could say that I’m trying to rescue you.”

_A child’s heart. Of course. The only thing innocent enough to reach out to me._

“Stop that, Vanitas.”

Vanitas howls, _I’m broken. I have no identity. My hea- no, my_ home _has been shattered._ It’s right. This place was his, once. The name slips out of his fingers akin to sand, but there is a skin-deep acknowledgment that this wasn’t always what surrounded him. Here, he has been left with nothing besides the ashes.

Almost disturbingly, the stranger is hardly phased. Its star glimmers ever brighter and if Vanitas had kept his eyes they would burn in turn. “But it is not destroyed entirely. Just in ruin… I know,” they say, happy with realization. The star nuzzles him, even. “You should join your heart with mine. It’ll be okay, if temporary. Then nothing else will slip away.”

_You… you’re going to help me become whole?_

“I _am_ here to help! It just depends on whether or not you’ll allow it.”

The stranger’s light sneaks in between the spaces of his nails and fingers, where there didn’t used to be any tear at all. Vanitas’ hands react in kind. Without any harm, the skin stitches its holes closed. However loathe he is to admit it, Vanitas sees how healing that spark can be.

“You don’t truly wish to disappear, do you? Otherwise you wouldn’t have let me meet you.”

Beneath the tower, the ground shifts and spikes. An unblemished pillar rises to meet the tower of rubble. His body reels as the parts sift to become one. When he lurches against the floor, Vanitas’ body genuinely moves without ache or pain. The sight of the heart station mending itself; it’s like filling in a cavity, maybe, as the liquid gold of an innocent heart is strewn across the gaps and crowns of black. “But why,” Vanitas questions with a voice he doesn’t recognize. “What can I do?”

“Well.” A thoughtless hum. They truly hadn’t considered… “I imagine that, one day, you’re going to be strong enough to win back the part that left.”

“The part of me that left,” Vanitas echoes. “Can it even live without me?”

“From the sounds of it, someone hurt the two of you real bad. Two,” the child laughs at the word, “I believe. But your other half is out there somewhere, that I know. With our hearts bonded like this, I can feel him lingering. For as long as we are together, you can reclaim what you’ve lost.”

“Tell me, what happens next?”

“Oh, that’s easy. It’s time for you to wake up, for the very first time.”

“That’s an inconceivable response.”

“Would you look at that! You’re doing better already.” Vanitas can’t be certain, but he has this strange inkling that the child is - grinning. How irritating. He scoffs at the idea and somehow happiness of the light radiates. “With only a little help, too.”

A little. Making it sound like such a small task… Vanitas’ laughter surprises the both of them. “What an understatement,” he manages.

The star bounces in place. “Vanitas, I know that you will forget about this. Forget about me, too, because you’re going to be completely reborn. But maybe there’s a future where, after I’m born and you’re whole again… we could be friends. So can you promise me something?”

“I don’t know what a promise is.”

“It’s, mmn, I think it’s like an oath. Something that means that you will keep to your word.”

_Ah_. “Would healing me, would that be your collateral?”

“That will work,” the stranger assures. Or, teases. Their words are spoken too soft to be serious. “Then, promise me that we’ll meet in the outside world.”

“So, you’re wanting me to try to not to die again. I… I think I can do that.”

“Good! Now, then, for you to wake up and for me to go back to sleep… all we have to do is open the door.”

“Does that mean you have to leave? That you’ll disappear and everything will be dark?”

“For now. You’ll have to wait until we see each other again.”

“But,” _after meeting you, after seeing the space illuminated in a warm, in a soft way_ , “I’m scared of the dark.”

The star pulses. “That’s okay. We can turn on the light.”

•

Vanitas was born again on empty world.

The man that brought him was watching the waves when it happened. Had Vanitas retained his original appearance, or if Vanitas had anyone’s features at all, Xehanort would have had no pity for him. That is what’s keeping him here, that sadness for another being. _And what for,_ Xehanort muses _, all because its carcass looks so disturbingly young?_ He was supposed to leave hours ago. Sentimentality isn’t a good enough excuse.

Most of Xehanort’s time is spent arguing with himself, really. He visualizes himself in pieces - like logical, rational, emotional, instinctual. The logical part of continuously points out that there was no use in naming it, either, but the rational side is aware that it would have been unnecessarily problematic to refer to the dead thing as _Ventus._ After all, the other child kept the softness and the blond hair. Ventus at least had a fighting chance of recovery, while his darkness… for what once was Ventus’ stronger affinity, it was inherently pathetic now. Thus, naming an empty creature _death_ seemed fitting.

_What’s the use in feeling sorrow for it,_ he ponders. _No one else will feel sorry for it. Nobody is aware that this husk exists. And every shell should return to the sea… if I threw this lifeless body into the ocean it would be over. I would be wiping my hands clean of it._

And then the ocean itself protests. The incoming tide was unnaturally harsh and the waves slammed against the beach; Xehanort felt the ripple course through the tree he leaned on. Startled as he was, Xehanort grunts and hastens to steady himself. Vanitas didn’t expect it, either —

In fact, Vanitas cries. 

Xehanort listens to the newborn’s wails in shock. Mere seconds ago, it was hollow and without a heartbeat, but it now was yowling so bad he worried for the child’s lungs. In between every pitch of breath, Vanitas would shakily inhale and cry even harder after. Without any reason why; without an idea from his brain or his heart, Xehanort reaches for the flimsy white sheet that was his cradle and brought him into his arms.

Vanitas’ fit hardly mellows. But he did hiccup again before screaming, a small relief. Somehow it was of little surprise when Xehanort unveiled him and saw that he was faceless no more. Almost like he wanted to emphasize this, the child rubbed his fist against his face - _I have a face_ , he seemed to be saying. _I have an identity_.

Mindlessly, Xehanort lightly bounces Vanitas. An attempt to stop the squealing, he defends to himself, before he could question the act. “Sh. Unnecessary noise will disturb the locals.”

“A-ah…”

“Hhm. So, it appears that you’re full of surprises...” Chucking him into the careless abyss would be of no use. _But it’s a baby,_ his mind hisses, a type of self-scorn _. He isn’t nearly strong enough to be anything. Why waste time with him?_

_He could be of some use, in the future. His initial reason to be alive could be re-analyzed. Find a different purpose for him._

_In the future… if he had no one else, if someone shaped his purpose, if Xehanort could just have him as a…_

“My pupil,” Xehanort says aloud. “From this day on, you be nothing but my student.”

Although the child’s shrieks continue for the rest of the night, the sound is much more tolerable when Vanitas is swathed in the blanket.


	2. adolescence

**( terra )**

* * *

 

  
It’s a lazy evening between two friends. The students - Aqua, and Terra - are polar opposites, from everything to food preference to personality varying wildly. Yet, despite the hard clash between Terra’s relaxed attitude and Aqua’s high-strung morality, the children are attached to the hip in and out of their lessons. So it’s not uncommon for the pair to be meddling in the library; tonight, Terra bird-watches from his spot on the window. Whereas Aqua’s attention to her book had flat-lined ages ago. She’s muttering to herself and each word is accentuated by a soft _tap_ of fingernail upon table.

“Master sure has been gone for a long time… do you think he’s alright?" 

“Aqua, why are you asking me? I ‘unno.”

“Well, I know he said it was an emergency, but maybe it was an _emergency_ -emergency. Do you think we should have gone with them?”

 _Ever steadfast_ , he thinks. _That’s Aqua for you_. “I’m not too sure.”

“Oh, you’re right. This is silly. Just… I just wonder, when is he going to be home?”

“Aqua?”

“Hopefully soon, right? I’m kind of hungry.”

Her fellow apprentice hops off of the windowsill to approach her. “Aqua.” Terra snaps his fingers in front of her, effectively startling Aqua out of her stupor. Once her eyes are entirely on him, he smiles. In all the glory he can muster, Terra pushes her against the chair. “You were doing that _thing_ again.”

“Oh.” Aqua’s face pinks. “Sorry. The Master says I get…”

“Get lost in your own thoughts, I know.” At least she’s in a good enough mood to laugh at the snideness. “I’m sure Master Eraqus will be home before we know it. With food,” he adds as an afterthought. Before he joins her, he grabs a book off the nearby shelf. It’s a smaller one, like the books Eraqus read to Terra during his bout of sleepless nights. Although he’d never admit it, Terra recalls those nights fondly. They were the result of reckless insomnia, but he didn’t fall asleep alone.

When he cracks open the book, Aqua gives him a curious once-over. She hums thoughtfully. “Hm. Hey, haven’t you read that story lots of times?”

“This one?” The evidence is in the dog-eared pages. “That’s ‘cause it’s a good book. It’s a fairytale about a hero who leaves everything behind for his friends. I know you don’t read that often —”

“Hmpf.”

“— but you’re gonna have to give it a try soon. It reminds me of what I wanna do when I grow up." 

“Go out and save people?” Aqua prompts. 

A soft smile breaks out over his face. “Yeah… that’s why we’ll be proper keyblade wielders when we’re older. Hey, wouldn’t it be cool if we went and saw the other places together?”

“Terra? You know what I want right now? At this very moment?”

“What?”

“I can’t wait until I’m old enough to be allowed in the kitchen. Won’t _that_ be nice?”

Terra disguises his reflexive gag as a cough. With his grin thankfully hidden behind the book, he manages to say, “Yeah. Sugar all the time. You’ll be the best baker in all the worlds.”

Aqua gets up to stare him down with a dirty look. Without shame, Terra shrugs. She defends herself in turn, “Honestly. I’ll learn how to cook something other than sweets. We have to have a balanced diet.”

“Hafta have a balanced diet, she says…  then what was that candy stash I found?”

“Terra!” Only somewhat lightly, she shoves him away. “I can have favorites. Plus - plus, you always sneak off with the oranges!”

“Do not!” He retorts, brimming with indignation.

“Do too!”

“Nuh uh! Master Eraqus gave them to me for doing good in training. It was a reward.”

“Then why couldn’t he find any oranges to make his afternoon smoothie with, huh?”

“That’s… not related,” he squeaks. Aqua has no reason to look that smug, he swears.

Childish of an argument as it was, their play-fight was only halted due to a loud creak of a far-away door. Both of them look away from one another and find the library door safely ajar, but the entrance is another story. For a split second, they whole-heartedly consider causing more of a ruckus to get Eraqus here _now;_ luckily the idea of running down the staircase like animals is far too alluring for any kid to resist.

But, before they can do that.

“Race you,” Terra challenges with a degree of aloofness. The determined spark in Aqua’s eyes is almost frightening.

And so, with cries of ‘ _mastermastermaster_ ’ on their lips, Terra and Aqua bolt down the story and practically cheer when the man regards them. Whoever got there first doesn’t end up mattering, because Terra launches himself onto Eraqus and Aqua hurries to hide behind his coattails before Terra can do anything mean.

“Master Eraqus! What took so long? Did you have to go fight some bad guys?”

“Master Eraqus! What are you holding?” Her numerous tugs on Eraqus’ sleeves are individually unrelenting.

“Wait, he’s got something? What is it?”

Finally, in an attempt to soothe them both, Eraqus reaches down with his free hand to ruffle Terra’s hair and then takes Aqua’s hand into his own. “My pupils, lively as ever. Have you been well-behaved in my absence?”

“Yes we’ve been great perfect even, role model students — now what are you holding?” 

“Terra,” Aqua says, between her laughs, “do you remember how to breathe?”

In spite, Terra takes a massive inhale and holds it in between his cheeks. Despite his somber mood, Eraqus laughs at the sight and gives Aqua’s hand an extra squeeze as thanks. “I see the good behavior vanishes because of my presence…”

“That’s not true! It’s because Terra’s been extra weird today.”

“Now, as for what urgent matters I had to attend to,” Eraqus loudly states, as Terra’s mouth opens in a comeback, “Look. I brought somebody with me.” Cautiously, he peels back a layer of blanket and slowly turns the dozing child to face both students. In hindsight, the baby is rather mild-tempered, given the amount of noise and shuffling he’s gone through in the past few minutes.

“Oh,” Terra says, suspiciously out of breath now. “A- a baby.”

“The boy’s name is is Ventus. His caretakers are both absent. My students, please listen to me. It is vital that the three of you to get along. I believe that Ventus here is going to be staying with us for a long time.”

Aqua tilts her head. “How long, Master?”

Eraqus’ smile is now strained. “Aqua, I need you to go do something for me. I need you to prepare the guest room. Clean it so that I can make it Ventus’ room. Can you do that for me?”

“…I see,” she says. “I’ll come back as soon as I’m done.” Just before she turns into the next corridor, however, she looks back at Terra. ‘Are you okay,’ she mouths, and Aqua doesn’t disappear until Terra acknowledges his head. There’s the inkling that she’s going to be taking her time, and Terra can’t decide if he’s comforted by that small mercy.

“Master? Tell me the truth. What happened to his parents?”

And it is - infuriating, when his Master won’t face him. “His mother, Xehanort was with her when she passed. We don’t know anything else.”

“…so he’s like me.”

“Yes. Terra,” and Eraqus gets down to one knee and faces him at eye-level when he says, “I am, sorry if this makes you uncomfortable. I understand how it can be difficult to see a child in such a similar situation as yours.”

“I’m not mad! I can’t be mad,” he insists. The infant swaddled within those sheets is too small to loathe. He’s so quiet, and here Terra had the idea that babies were noisy. The overwhelming silence makes Ventus seem serene. It makes him seem pitiful.

Terra doesn’t know how to voice those thoughts. They’re ugly thoughts, regardless, so Terra shakes his head to be rid of them and questions something else. “The man that was with you… was that him? That was the guy that saved him?”

“That is correct. It’s unfortunate you didn’t get properly acquainted, but Xehanort had business of his own to take care of. You will see him again soon, I imagine.”

 _Do I want to?_ Terra wonders. If someone is so willing to pass the buck onto a friend who’s already got a couple of students… _do I really want to see him at all?_ Did he look at Ventus with the same urge of regret Terra is wrangling with now? But if Terra knew why people would ever leave a child behind, then he wouldn’t be in Eraqus’ care at all. “Yes, Master. I’m happy you were honest.”

“There’s no need to sound so formal. I’ve always thought that was the issue with you and Aqua… so young, yet you chase for maturity without any abandon. I’d say appreciate your youth while you have it, but neither I nor Xehanort did that.” 

“We got it from you,” Terra responds, unflinchingly. Although he quickly flusters and looks for a reason as to why he’d ever say something like that, Eraqus looks too genuinely amused to be bothered by the comment.

“Well. Aqua is waiting for you in the hallway. She's acting as though she’s being incredibly sneaky. Please, allow her to play pretend for today. And just for tonight, I’ll keep Ventus’ cradle in my room.”

“Okay… you have more you want to say,” Terra realizes belatedly.

“Beginning tomorrow, I will have an early morning to take care of Ventus before training resumes as scheduled. Do you comprehend what I’m saying?”

He clicks his tongue. “Be quiet so you can sleep the whole night?” An act of kindness, so rarely given.

“That’s good. Now, run along. We can discuss things in the morning, when we’re not all so dreary.”

It sounds good on paper. _Everything will be better in the morning_. Nobody functions well with little sleep or bad remnants on the mind, but it’s different. He lies awake in bed for might as well be hours. In the grand scheme of things, it was a minuscule amount of time Terra spent not being an orphan, practically on par with Ventus’. But will Ventus be burdened with longing for a family? For people to complete him?

Terra doesn’t have the answers. Terra likes to watch the birds outside and he likes to tease his friend, Aqua, and how the heck is a baby going to fit into his already packed schedule? It’s too much to solely ponder about, so he relies on whining into his pillow.

Which is a problem, because his room isn’t his alone. Nor is the bed, really, when they’re sharing a bunk-bed.

“Hey, Terra? You up?”

Completely caught, Terra sighs. He admits it. “Yeah. I can’t get to sleep.”

“…I’m coming up,” she responds. “Hold on.”

Initially, Aqua merely peers over the bunkbed. In the dim moonlight, all Terra can see is the far-off stars in her eyes and her hair so dark it might as well be gray now. Then, without any asking or warning, she climbs into bed and tells him to scoot over. He can’t recall whether or not she gets reprimanded for this as it’s rude, but if she did, she deserved it. Nevertheless, she wiggles herself into place next to the window.

“I’ve been doing some thinking.”

“Oh, no.”

“About us. And Ven, too, now. I bet we’re going to be great friends.”

He squints at her. “What makes you say that?”

“Well… that’s how it works in your books, right? The kids get together and are inseparable. I want us to be like that. So. You remember earlier, how you told me we should go on adventuring?”

“Yeah. What’s this about, Aqua?”

“I thought about it. You’re right, it would be nice. So can we all try to… once we’ve all grown up, and we’re big and strong, and we can do whatever we want? Let’s go out and explore the worlds together.  It’ll be the three of us. You, me, and Ven.”

Terra looks at her. He can’t make out her face, but suddenly he doesn’t need to see her at all.

“Y’know? I like the sound of that.”

•

Meanwhile _…_

“I’m not going to stand here aimlessly and watch as you… infect the wasteland. You will be rid of these vermin, no matter what method I must implement to do so.”

Busy being literally infantile, Vanitas doesn’t dignify him with a response. Xehanort openly scoffs at the child in his arms. A graveyard is no place to raise a baby, but the monsters were at bay and Vanitas needn’t get so upset for being on his lonesome for a number of hours. Ventus is ultimately more pressing matter, in the end; Vanitas is the spare. That is undeniable.

What right did he have to create an infestation?

There’s an overwhelming sensation when Xehanort approaches the child’s creation, however. It’s an alien feeling; _anguish_ , as there hasn’t been any need for suffering in his personal life. The pure sadness is an ugly sight, with its beady red eyes and twitchy form. No Name mows each and every abomination down, as though they’re butter and not alive —

Vanitas makes one of those, truly awful screams when the darkness molts onto itself. Briefly, Xehanort considers giving him something to actually fret over, but in that second another one of the same beasts emerges. And for every monster Xehanort destroyed, two took their companion’s place.

Oh.

So that’s how this is going to work, is it.

Xehanort now muses over the creatures, which cower away from his figure. “Vanitas, you truly never cease to amaze me. When will your wonders end?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is likely to be the only terra pov chapter in the story, and the only one to focus heavily on the bbs trio. we'll come back to them in a few chapters, but it won't be the main focus. ch.3 is firmly vanitas time. 
> 
> i'm aware that the in-game descriptions refer to the floods of being born of irritation. however, i thought it was more thematically appropriate to base them around sadness. i've created a small bestiary for the unversed for this fic. eventually there will be a link to it, but i'm going to introduce more of them before we get to that.


	3. a real human being

**( vanitas )**

* * *

 

 

> "Dad? Dad, why do you say that I’m not like other kids?"
> 
> "In the eyes of the realm, you are an anomaly. Your existence is unlike anyone else’s, because you should never have been born."

-

 

> "Dad? How come it hurts me when you put kill those animals?"
> 
> "Those are mindless beings. They are merely very convincing projections of a peculiar heart's… attitude. It's pointless to concern yourself with them, much less the aftermath of their fates. Strike them down upon sight."

Neither of them refer to the creatures as anything but.

Although Vanitas becomes fine-tuned with their pain; sometimes, when his head isn’t spinning and the blood isn’t a cloud hazing his vision, he swear that it’s all uncannily familiar. He listens to their dying shrieks and watches how the opening spread between their inky flesh that reveals teeth in _sympathy_. Eventually the pain blossoms over his body and thus it’s too hard to think at all, but there is the occasion where an organ between his ribs constricts like muscle memory.

-

 

> “Dad? Does my keyblade have a name like yours does?”
> 
> “My. This sentimental behavior is unusual. Be aware that the keyblade you wield does not truly belong to you. It acts as a fragment, an unprecedented consequence of your divide. I suppose it is possible for it one day to become a proper half, but that transformation would depend on you excelling in your training.”

Void Gear doesn’t shake in his hands anymore. The keyblade has an unforeseen stubborn streak, unwilling to bend to Vanitas’ will and unyielding despite every command. Privately, Vanitas believes that it could never be tamed, only tempered. Therefore for as irritating as it is when Void Gear pricks against his palm or ignites without abandon, he can’t muster the energy to be mad at the keyblade itself. The outcome is always the same anyway.

Life is grueling, he thinks. Practicing with the keyblade hurts him, whether or not it’s Void Gear directly cutting him, or the ripple effect of killing one of those oddities.

-

 

> “Master? Where can I go meet Ventus?”
> 
> “It is forbidden. Do not ask me again.”

Out of all the rules, Vanitas hates this one the most. Later, Master Xehanort will corner him against a wide pillar and inquire how Vanitas knew that name. Vanitas aches to answer; he is unable to respond.

-

 

> “Master?”

-

 

> “Master? Master, when are you coming home?”

Being left alone with his thoughts hurts him. Isolation in general is awful. Vanitas recalls his youth with an eerie edge of fondness; Master Xehanort was somewhat present during those days, even if he only stayed for as long as he deemed necessary.

**•**

No matter how far Vanitas strays - no matter how far he walks the terrain, he inevitably returns here. Whether or comes on foot, or through mindless warping, the clearing is where Vanitas’ subconscious constantly wants to go. Where it longs to be is somewhere unknowable. This is closest he can get to home.

For most of its vastness, the Keyblade Graveyard is undeniably sterile. Left behind swords had created the spiraling cracks in the ground, not the natural cycle of death and life within the confines of a desert. It was another truth for years, that he lived on dead land.

But Vanitas now knows that all isn’t wholly lost.

Very few keyblades are present. Perhaps that’s why the Master has overseen the area. _Master Xehanort sure does know a lot,_ he muses, _but he doesn_ _’t know about this place. Or should I say,_ my _place;_ satisfied with that amendment, Vanitas sits with his legs crossed and plays with the flowers as per usual.

Unlike their unruly yellow counterparts, these don’t have petals and Vanitas is reduced to having to tear stems. Despite everything, the plantlife still grows in the absence. In truth, he likes the purple ones the best. The yellow flowers are strange, because eventually the vibrant colors fade and all of its petals shrivel. Within a couple days, the bud turns into something incredibly fuzzy. He typically sneezes around the fluff and the one, sole time he succumbed to the unreasonable urge to exhale the fuzz into the wind, he got dizzy from a minor coughing fit.

Absentmindedly, Vanitas flicks a leaf. “Strange how you guys are even alive right now. I mean, it’s not like there’s any animals around that wanna eat you,” he ponders aloud. None of the unfauthom... unfathomable creatures wander here, either. It’s just Vanitas and the flowers. “Alright then. It’s gotta be the cold that kills ya, right? If that wasn’t the case, you’d be here all the time…”

To Vanitas, the flowers are a structure of time. He’s seen them throughout their seasons. For the past couple of years he’s watched them wither and spring. So it must be the start of a new year, and if he only stumbled upon this clearing when he was three…

“I’m six now,” he concludes. At best it’s a vague estimate - the idea of a birthday would go right over his head, honestly - but it works. “Huh. I’m six and I got the ‘ _b_ lade…”

Vanitas frowns at his stutter. That's twice, now. He has an unfortunate tendency for slurring words together - Master Xehanort hates it, says it makes Vanitas hard to understand. Or, whatever indecipherable means? “I’m six and I got the _blade_ when I was four. Hm! Bet I’m way ahead now then I was then! I gotta tell the master that. He’s gonna be so proud of me, isn’t he?”

_Whenever he comes back to me._

_I want you to come back._

“The next time he’s here, I’ll got to tell him that. And y’know, I think I’ll let him know about this place.” He bobs his head. “Even when he’s in a real bad mood he has to like you half as much as I do. That makes sense, hah.”

**•**

“You’re home!”

Besides that, Xehanort’s return occurs with minuscule fanfare. Vanitas may be plagued with enthusiasm, but his master’s slouch is unusually pronounced today. Within an instant, No Name emerges. The wicked metal gleams in the dawn’s range of colors.

Vanitas’ stomach violently churns at the sight of the keyblade’s teeth. _What did I do this time? What could have I done wrong now?_  “Master…?”

“Why are you hesitating? Assume your stance.”

“Oh.” Training. It’s just training. Vanitas visibly deflates; he scolds himself for worrying, scolds himself for hoping at all.

Void Gear takes longer - always takes longer - and it roars to life after ample beckoning. He feels the first scratch; internally, Vanitas prides himself on not grimacing this time. Before Xehanort can assume his stance, though, Vanitas quickly adds, “I want to show you something today. I… I wanna let you know how much better I’ve gotten.”

“Hm.”

“Awhile ago I noticed that it’s been two years. That must mean I’m really good now. Doesn’t it…?”

“Battles should be seen, not heard. En garde.”

“R-right…” Flowers and praise be damned, apparently.

Master Xehanort’s initial battle form continuously has Vanitas at a loss for words. An inexperienced wielder would consider him helpless. But to say that ‘things get out of hand’ is an understatement, and Vanitas longs for the day where he can be just as surprising.

Their spar is nearly friendly. There’s the occasional correction from Xehanort, Vanitas responds by quickly fixing his error, and the battle resumes. A younger Vanitas would have argued about his so-called mistakes. This older Vanitas listens.

He must be doing good.

But maybe he gets cocky, or maybe Vanitas steps out of line, for there’s a distinct twitch in Xehanort’s face. Suddenly No Name’s blows are much harder to counter and he keeps reeling back with little time to spare. There’s a tactic Master Xehanort has suggested for these situations - _when you_ _’re backed up against a corner_ \- and Vanitas knows that he’s been purposefully chased to be up close and personal with the pillars.

On pure instinct, Vanitas warps. His destination is unclear, though, and his corridor spits him unfortunately closer to the rocks. Upon emerging, Void Gear is immediately knocked out of his hands via No Name’s magic. Stunned as he is, Vanitas watches the keyblade fly, fly out of range. Of course, inaction is the worst possible move, and a frozen Vanitas doesn’t care that he’s been left completely exposed. When he finally does look behind him, Xehanort is already there.

No Name tears his back apart.

Technically, anyway.

In reality, Vanitas’ body can’t bleed. He doesn’t have blood - or tears - or sweat. The closest thing he has to veins would be the patterns that have been melded into his skin due to the bodysuit. Emotions sift away from his heart, and that’s what is ripped asunder; Vanitas feels _pain_ erupt across his makeshift spine, he can feel the wayward beasts that crawl from that open wound. As his false skin attempts desperately to patch itself together, Vanitas inches to where his keyblade had been so carelessly thrown away.

_I can still fight, I can be good I can be good I can still fight -_

The Master swings again. If Vanitas had bones, they would be exposed. He buckles against the ground and is hapless but to listen to the static pulse within his skull. Somewhere, one of the beings must fall too, because the pain emerges ten-fold. Although he tries to stand, Vanitas can’t prop himself up on even a shoulder.

When his hearing comes back, Vanitas is quick to realize that Xehanort had been monologuing the entire time. “… battle’s over. If you were a truly alive opponent, you would be dead at my feet.”

“Master,” Vanitas dry-heaves against the sand. “Master, _please_.”

Xehanort lowers himself to a knee. It’s not proper eye-level, but Vanitas sees how he leers at his broken state. Small mercies. “You lost. Get up.”

Vanitas shakily inclines his head. There must be grime smeared on his cheek; he feels utterly filthy. There’s the infuriating temptation to cry. It’s a good thing that Vanitas couldn’t even if he wanted to. Master Xehanort doesn’t offer him a hand and Vanitas swears that he’s still prone to collapsing as he stands.

He isn’t even looking at Vanitas. His grip on No Name tightens, relaxes. Tightens… “Your form leaves much to be desired, Vanitas. Corridors of Darkness should not be so unstable. In battle, they are intended to be unpredictable, whereas I struck you immediately upon reentry.”

“I-I understand, Master…”

Xehanort’s grip relaxes. “Such a disappointment. Vanitas, you contradict yourself like this. Anyone who says you have improved is a fool.”

Vanitas flinches. Biting the inside of his cheek is a stupid habit to have, even if it grounds him now.  “I’m sorry, Master! You’re right, Master! I was being stupid!”

“Then allow your hurt be another lesson.” No Name’s eye glints in the daylight. “Wasting my time, bothering me with such pointless drivel… this is the end result.”

Eventually, in between the strikes, Vanitas loses consciousness. 

**•**

There should be no water in the wasteland. Nonetheless Vanitas’ body is soaked; it’s as though being wet is weighing him down, with how unnaturally sluggish his movements are.

 _It_ _’s artificial. It’s fake, like my body_ , he assumes. _Just another part of his magic_ _… but hey, he at least cleaned me up._ Vanitas smiles to himself. It - hurts - everything aches, because of him, because of Master Xehanort, but Master Xehanort found the time and energy to spray Vanitas worthwhile.

Hah.

The sunlight is irritatingly bright today. Throwing an arm across his eyes takes longer than it should. Soaked, drained, and exhausted, Vanitas lets his thoughts wander.

_Why am I here? Why have I been born?_

_Salvation_ , he remembers. _I do this for_ _salvation_.

He moves his hand away to blink towards the morning sun. And the reflection in the water has new, yellow eyes.


	4. shooting star

**( vanitas )**

* * *

 

_Once upon a time… the world existed without flaw._

_Not initially, no. But the mother darkness gave way to light and thus the world became unblemished._

“We know that beacon as Kingdom Hearts. Of course, every lighthouse must have a keeper. Therefore it was decreed that Kingdom Hearts was to be protected by a most mysterious weapon, its counterpart, the χ-blade. ”

 Xehanort tilts his head upwards; he watches the sun sets red. The land is swathed in that color.

“Yet, humanity lived on the verge. People lived and died outside of the wondrous illumination. Generations passed and with each offspring, greed began to taint their essence. A calamity soon emerged from their ravenous behavior. The age of fairy tales collapsed from this unbearable strain. In between the throes of war, both Kingdom Hearts and its metallic embodiment were lost to mankind. Ultimately, the light receded and darkness triumphed. The corruption did not spread fully, and so, some view it as a pyhrric victory. Nonetheless it was a catastrophic failure.”

They’ve spent the day walking the trail, far beyond the trenches and the columns. Nightfall is approaching and the distant constellations are bright.

“We are a splinter of our former selves. How little we know of what came before. These humans are unworthy of the flame. I suppose our exile was for our own good, in the end. Inconceivably, in my youth, I began to imagine a world where we never strayed. Wouldn’t it be nice, I thought, if we could start over? If mankind could get another chance? This was my… dream, having long ago turned into my desire. And thankfully, it is not so out of reach. Throughout my life, I have slaved over the existence of the first light and now I know that it can reemerge.”

His apprentice’s footsteps still. “Then you want to summon Kingdom Hearts.”

“That is my intention, yes.”

“But… do you know what happens after? As for what’s going to happen to me?”

However slowly, Xehanort stops and turns his gaze to his companion. Overhead, the stars litter the skyline and each, insignificant speck is the innermost glow of another world.

“The power held within Kingdom Hearts will grant us a blank state. When the rebirth of the world finally comes to pass, I will be its conqueror. It will be purity, within the hands of eternity. That is what I strive for. That is what you live for, Vanitas.”

“My purpose,” he amends, numbly. Due to the lack of moonlight, the gold in his eyes doesn’t shine and instead looks impossibly gray.

“Precisely. I will be the one to open the door. You will be the one to guide me there. That darkness inside of you, the strongest part of you, will then finally reclaim its light. Your reunion will bring forth the χ-blade. Your salvation, you could call it.”

“You’re going to help me become whole.”

 _I imagine that, one day, you’re going to be strong enough to win back the part that left._ Words spoken to him so long ago it might’ve been a dream - something Xehanort must’ve said to him.

“Master. Will it hurt?”

“Hm?”

“When I become whole. When the χ-blade appears. Is it going to hurt?”

“…no, I cannot think of why it would. If anything, it will be akin to waking from a deep slumber. This rejuvenation is to heal our world, not destroy it.”

Something in his tone tells Vanitas it’s a lie. He doesn’t question it, well aware of the consequences of such, and instead bows his head to Xehanort’s words. What a wonder they are, Kingdom Hearts - the χ-blade - the uniting of the light and the dark. All of it too good to be true, of course.

**•**

Vanitas rubs his temples with vigor. Expelling his emotions helps take the edge off, sure, but no matter how much sadness or anger he rejects, the pounding in his head persists. Despite knowing that his headache is unrelenting, Vanitas has created a swarm. It’s an impulse.

The monsters keep staring at him, without flinching regardless of what Vanitas does to their brethren. Not that Vanitas focuses on them very often; the Unversed give him the creeps for all sorts of reasons, like the fact that their eyes are always completely void of color.

He knows that prior to Xehanort’s return he has to slaughter the mass of Unversed prior to Xehanort’s return, lest Vanitas desires another agonizing massacre. This particular horde is composed mostly of Scrappers, who are either hugging themselves or mindlessly raking their long claws against the gravel. _Figures_ , Vanitas thinks with a snort. _They copy what they see_.

It hadn’t been Vanitas’ idea to specify them; the _Unversed_ , a term of Master Xehanort’s incentive. In time, he also decided to name the individual creatures. Floods, his sadness. The embodiment of the tears that Vanitas cannot physically shed. They’re twitchy, unstable. Then there’s the Scrappers, apparently Vanitas’ peculiar irritation given shape. Bruisers, the beast that had first malformed from Vanitas’ horrendous back injury when he was six; the Unversed that spawn from the raw feeling of powerlessness. When he’s in one of his fouler moods, Xehanort will openly mock the Unversed. Xehanort had previously decapitated a Bruiser and had the gall to laugh.

There are more creatures. Really, a staggering amount, too many to realistically count and categorize. Whether or not Vanitas purposefully denies his feelings or they’re ruthlessly torn out of his unusual body, he hates them. They are made from pain, there are internal aches and colorful bruises and they’re all because of the Unversed. Yet they all come crawling back to him. Unaware of their true purpose, the Unversed flail throughout their startlingly short lives to hurt everyone else around them. And yet, their deaths hurt their creator. How macabre.

 _Are these thoughts really mine,_ he wonders. Was this loathing ever his to begin with?

Void Gear is smooth when it slices one into twine. Vanitas presses two fingers against the base of his skull. _Get out of my head._

**•**

“I’m back, you guys.”

With their season in full swing, the flowers have bloomed beautifully into themselves. Each grow in various patches, but altogether they’ve spread across what little vegetation remains. Splotchy grass, albeit colorful enough to still be tasteful. Some of them peek out over the edge, and it’s quick to become Vanitas’ new favorite spot. Finding out that the constellations are much easier to make out from this high up was a pleasant surprise - and whenever he not-so-accidentally kicks a fledging emotion off the cliff, it’s a considerably quicker death. If he were to look down, he’d see the rows and rows of pointy rocks that awaited every unfortunate creature in free fall.

He’s completely alone today, without a keyblade or any bothersome Unversed remaining by his side. There’s a recovering tremble in his hands, thus the keyblade was dismissed forever ago.

As always Vanitas sits with his legs across his lap, settling down next to the plants but not atop. Despite the sweltering temperature, the air is fresh and sweet. A furious wind whips his hair and its warmth coils in what could be his stomach. Beating the heat is a joke, and he has half the mind to forfeit. It’d be nice to lie down and bask in the sunlight, but his clothes being melded into his skin makes that idea troublesome.

Ah, well.

“Wish I had something to hide under,” he says, gesturing across his face. “You know, how you all don’t burn up is beyond me.”

“Well, they must be pretty stubborn if they’re living in a dump like this.”

Vanitas full-bodily jolts; Void Gear bursts alive snarling and tears into his hand. Some of his teaching is disregarded, here. His compulsive magic isn’t aimed to harm, merely threaten, because even for self-survival’s sake Vanitas would never set the flowers on fire.

For all his trouble, Vanitas is rewarded with one raised eyebrow from the stranger. “Sheesh. Rough crowd. Is this how you treat everyone new you meet?”

“I know _what_ you are.” Vanitas bares his teeth. “An invader.” An invader wearing something red and heavy on his neck during a heat wave, no less. What kind of self-absorbed?—

The man snorts, almost softly. In an insultingly casual manner, he unties the wrap around his neck. Not entirely, just enough for rest two long streaks of red against his collarbones. “Someone’s got the wrong idea. If anyone doesn’t belong, it’s you… but hey, I’m not the type to judge.”

Void Gear doesn’t shake, it’s his fingers that slip, but its sharp teeth are still close enough for him to rightfully be wary. “Why are you here in the first place? Who even let you in?”

“That’s as good as it gets, huh? Alright, I guess I can humor you. The name’s Braig, and you must be the coot’s guinea pig.”

“…what?”

“Consider it a term of endearment. You’re Xehanort’s apprentice, is what I’m saying.”

He lowers the keyblade, if by a hair. “You know Master Xehanort?”

“Kid, he was my ride. I say that we’re pals, but,” the man - Braig - flaps a hand. “He probably considers us acquaintances. Not terribly chummy, your master. And I know what you’re thinking, as if anyone could be close to him, I know.”

 _That… certainly sounds about right_. Nevertheless, something about this guy is making Vanitas’ skin crawl. Void Gear isn’t completely expelled, merely lowered to a crevice in the ground. “Then why are you over here? Where he’s not?”

It would be characteristic of Braig to flutter his eyelashes, here. “Can’t a guy stretch his legs?”

“You’re dodging the question,” Vanitas fires back. Braig - makes an unhappy sound, like he genuinely thought Vanitas wouldn’t notice.

“I have never been badgered about so much in such a small time frame. You really are his kid,” he muses. Vanitas immediately raises the keyblade up to Braig’s chin. “Okay! Okay! God, you’re brutal for your size. Fine, I just happened to overhear your conversation with the weeds, that’s all. Not that big of a deal.”

Vanitas squints. “Weeds?”

“Yeah. Sad enough, not the cool kind. The annoying kind.”

 _That is, really vague. Almost like he’s doing it on purpose_. However, Vanitas has too much pride to freely admit that he doesn’t know what Braig is referring to. How can you call someone annoying in a polite manner, Vanitas wonders. That’s a question to ask Xehanort. He grumbles the best he can come up with, which is, “You’re a whole new kind of indecipherable.”

Braig shrugs, like that’s a mundane comment he’s heard a thousand times, and steps aside to the brush. Without warning, Braig grounds a handful of flowers underneath his heel. Vanitas winces. It’s the lack of remorse, more than anything, that stings.

“Can you stop?”

“Persistence is key,” Braig says without really addressing him. “You can kill one weed, but another two will come to take its place.”

“Wait. You were talking about my flowers?” Vanitas asks, incredulous.

Braig stills and turns to stare at Vanitas for a moment. Then he starts to laugh, palm splayed up against his chest. “Did I hear that right? Flowers? Kid. Oh, you really don’t get out much.”

“It doesn’t matter what they’re called! They’re mine!”

“Hey, I’m just trying to be friendly. You don’t get it. Dandelions and henbits… they’re pests. For instance, nobody would want them in their lawns. So I’ll be doing you a favor.” He uproots the weeds. _Dandelions,_ he said. Several yellow petals are crushed in between his fingertips.

Hollow as he may be, something internal within Vanitas begins to coil. Distantly, the feels the claws of a Scrapper seethe and prick at his teeth. He forces it down, and the pins and needles move lower to settle against his jaw. “Leave us alone.”

“Easy there, tiger. No need to be so angry.” Then, upon realization, Braig blinks. “Angry,” he says to himself. “That reminds me of something. Those itty bitty friends of yours. They’re called the Unversed, aren’t they? And those monsters shouldn’t exist, either.”

Monsters?

Plural. Monsters. A few Unversed have, although weakly, torn themselves away from Vanitas’ unstable shadow. The twin pair of Scrappers are to be expected. They’ve latched onto one another, in a sickeningly painful embrace as their nails bite into the other’s skin. But Vanitas does not recognize the creature that’s… fashioned itself a home in the shape of Braig’s boot. It leers for just an instant before ducking back inside. A vicious red-eyed glare.

Master Xehanort - if he was to come this way -

For Braig to coo so blatantly, Vanitas’ panic must show on his face. “Listen, I won’t tell the old man a thing. That’s if, you’re willing to keep a secret of mine in turn.”

“Your… secret.”

“That’s right. An eye for an eye. Sound good?”

Taking out his eye seems more appropriate; Void Gear flares at the idea. Yet instinct drives Vanitas to acknowledge his head.

“Where to begin… as if there’s enough time for all of ‘em, right. So you’ve seen that sinister, evil-eye keyblade Xehanort wields, huh.”

It takes every inch of willpower to not mention how familiar Vanitas is with Xehanort’s keyblade. Of course the two knew each other, as it shredded him down to his make-believe spine. “It’s called No Name.”

Braig’ expression sours. He mutters something under his breath, something like _a joke that didn’t age well_. “Mhm. Here’s the fun part. Would ya believe me if I told you it was mine?”

“What?”

Mockingly, “What? I said what I said.”

“Get real. You’re insane. Or, or you’re a liar. That’s impossible. Keyblades truly only belong to one person.”

“Who told you that? Wait, hold on, hold on, let me guess… had to have been your pops, right? Tell if me I’m wrong.” Vanitas’ fingers curl into a fist. “Hah. Kid, seems to me that no one ever taught you to question your sources.”

“The Master knows everything!”

 “Are you super sure about that?”

He isn’t.

After all, Master Xehanort is a liar.

His silence speaks volumes. Braig sighs, rather melodramatically, and regards Vanitas with pity. “Come on. You’ll never know the truth unless you go out and look for it yourself. Gotta stretch your wings and fly sometime.”

“…Master would never let me leave.”

“Oh, don’t get all sad on me now. He’ll go senile before you know it. Give him, like, eight more years, then he’ll be none the wiser. I bet you’ll be unleashing your minions in all kinds of places while he thinks you’re sitting pretty at home.”

Behind him, the Scrappers shudder. Both of them are being reduced to ooze. At the very least, the fabric of the holed away monster has almost fully melted, with the Unversed itself seeping back into its creator. “Why is he so cruel?”

“Great question! I love an interactive audience. Pay attention, this part is important.” In complete and total seriousness, Braig bends down to a knee, keeping a steady eye-level with Vanitas. Some of the red wrap dangles against Vanitas’ forehead. “His knickers are in a twist because of some dude named Terra. Got it? _Terra_. He’s not being entirely malleable at the moment and so the old man’s all up in arms about it. I imagine he’s taking it out on you.”

“So this is all Terra’s fault.” The words taste like ash. Faintly, Vanitas feels his throat begin to seize - like it should hurt to say. He massages his neck, although the phantom sensation doesn’t disperse.

“Bingo,” Braig says. He stands, dusting off his pants with a small smile. “If Terra was more interested in being a good boy, none of us would be in this mess. Real shame, huh.”

“I-”

“Braig.”

Vanitas jumps at the voice. Fortunately enough, all of the Unversed have slithered their way back in just the nick of time. Master Xehanort’s displeasure is radiating off of him… but it surprises Vanitas to see how it’s directed at Braig.

“You didn’t wait. What exactly are you doing?” 

“Just mingling with the locals. Vanitas here is a real hoot.” Braig haphazardly leans down to mess with his unruly hair. On reflex, Vanitas half-heartedly elbows him. “See? You’ll have to let me come by more often.”

Xehanort’s lip curls, but not in amusement.  Huh. Vanitas has to admit, the Master being mad at someone else is a welcome change. “Bothering my pupil, of all things. Have you forgotten why you came here?”

“Sure I remember. Your little pet project. I’ll run along now,” the tone of an offer — Braig is placating, he realizes. “And hey. Remember to be back before curfew.”

Throughout all of his words, that’s the one that’s not a figurative statement. Quite literally, Braig does run. A full dead sprint across the badlands. The impromptu emergence of fear is terribly flimsy, and Vanitas wonders if Xehanort can see through the paper-thin facade. Maybe not, he concludes, as Xehanort is still frowning. In contrast, he’s always smirking whenever Vanitas is afraid…

Upon Braig being satisfyingly off in the distance, Xehanort does address him. “Vanitas,” he starts. Apparently he thinks better of himself, as Xehanort coughs into his fist rather than continuing.

Leading to Vanitas hapless but to prompt a, “Master?”

“Hm. It appears as though you’ve been acquainted with Braig. You’ve been disturbed by his unusual disposition. He is an exceedingly unpleasant man, isn’t he?”

“Couldn’t have said better myself.” A pause. “But that means you know him,” Vanitas clarifies. In response, Xehanort acknowledges his head.

“A man with the likeness of a necessary pawn. It would be best to avoid Braig for now. I suppose that if he does decide to tread after you, you could amuse him. Anything to keep him out of trouble in my absence,” he says.

Unsurprising. Leaving him, again. Unwilling to mask his annoyance, Vanitas snips, “Where are you going now?”

“The Land of Departure.”

“Huh?” Not necessarily out of confusion. In truth, Vanitas is startled because he recognizes the name; better yet, it’s a home. It’s not Vanitas’ home, nor is it his birthplace; the name stubbornly rings familiar. Why?

_Your other half is out there somewhere, that I know._

“Was this supposed to be a one-sided conversation? You do realize that is my destination. Eventually, I will return.”

That shocks him out of the stupor, to say the least. “Right…” Somewhat awkwardly, he waves Xehanort goodbye. As expected, Xehanort does not return the gesture. He’s gone within an instant and the portal blinks out of existence shortly.

“The Land of Departure… Eh. What a mouthful.” A mouthful of a homeland. That’s where his light is sheltered. Perhaps Xehanort going to meet him there.

Vanitas won’t be too far behind. That’s because - it would be of some comfort to be near his opposite.

“Sorry, Master. Braig’s gonna have to entertain himself this time.”

His corresponding corridor is gaping, unsteady. If he’s going to leave, he has to do it now. Vanitas steels his resolve and steps into a space that stretches across the realms between.

**•**

A discordant rhythm beats. In and out, akin to the pulse of a headache. Vanitas rubs his temple. The waves soften, they clear enough for Vanitas to be able to tell what is shade and what is light.

That song. It is not a song. It is a motion; hands tugging at heartstrings that are already pulled taut. Wires, ready to snap and frayed. The feeling that wears him down. It’s exhaustion - it’s exhilaration -

_With our hearts bonded like this, I can feel him lingering._

He’s close. Definitely the proper home world, but where is his light? For that matter, where has Vanitas landed?

A clearing, apparently. Earthy pillars flank the castle. Unlike the towers in the graveyard, they are lush, plantlife sprouting from every crack and cascading down the rock. As for the castle itself, chains interlink to lock to those same pillars. Its steps are massive and long, and there’s a winding stretch of green plants across the marble. In Vanitas’ opinion, this place could not be more otherworldly; it’s senseless, warpish. The pristine conditions are startling. Even if there was rot, Vanitas would be beside himself.

“I bet he has a room,” Vanitas murmurs as he ascends the staircase. “A room that’s just as white and blinding as the outside.” He clicks his tongue. “Tasteless. Somebody doesn’t appreciate getting their hands dirty.”

By the time Vanitas is inside, he’s all but winded. Stopping isn’t feasible, though. Vanitas knows that if he were to take a breath, he’d keel over — he has to keep going. He must. Until they’re together again. Thus the collapse comes as a surprise. He falls short of an office. Irritatingly, his legs are paralyzed. The two are particularly melded together, unable to break apart despite how Vanitas claws at them from the thighs.

A heartbeat is hammering. Vanitas moves to tear at his chest but finds it calm. This isn’t his panic; as further proof, no internal monsters are seeking solace.

“…en any progression?”

He’d recognize that voice anywhere. That wild beat quickens in someone else’s fear.

 _Oh. You’re scared of him, too,_ Vanitas realizes. _I guess we do have some things in common._

“It’s slow. Fortunately enough, my students aren’t fazed. They’re determined to treat him as one of their own. I just wish there was more we could do for the boy.”

 _Him?_ Curiosity piqued _,_ Vanitas peers into the study. He’s incredibly lucky that the Master’s back is turned to him.

But the newcomer is a surprise - Master Xehanort really does have friends - and it’s obvious that this place belongs to the stranger. For as long as Vanitas has known him, Xehanort has never been a sentimental guy. In contrast, this room has things encased in glass and weirdly colored shrapnel. It radiates warmth even to an outsider.

“The heart is an enigma of an entity, Eraqus. None of us could have foreseen the events that have led us here.” A reassurance, from no other than Xehanort.

There’s a loud _creak_ , a sound that Vanitas has never heard before, and his breath catches. Has he been found out? But - no - it’s the old man Eraqus, leaning back into his chair with a sigh. Both men have yet to acknowledge the shadow in the hallway. And on second glance, he notices that Eraqus has a dramatic scar that cuts across the eye… and he sees that the room has a lot of foreign stuff. Vanitas doesn’t know what to call any of it.

“I suppose you’re right. But that series of coincidences had disastrous results. If you were to ever again find someone as broken as Ventus, I’d worry for destiny’s intentions.”

Ventus.

Ven.

 _It would probably be of some comfort if we were together_.

Xehanort’s smile is evident in his voice. “Ah. You know that destiny is never left to chance.”

Eraqus regards his friend, expression fond. “Hah. So that’s apart of your more lasting teachings.” The peace comes naturally between them both. Vanitas knows that he’s intruding - quite literally, is an intruder, and he wishes that his legs could finally unstick. And of course, Xehanort must shift at that moment. Vanitas watches the realization dawn on Eraqus’ face. His expression molts several times; surprise, anger, then it seems to decide on disgust. Amply, Xehanort turns to face him as well. Oddly enough, out of the two, he’s the one that’s hardly phased.

 _He knew you were there_. A different person. The headache returns in full-force, upon an overlapping of voices, inside and outside.

“Xehanort. What is he doing here?”

“…It appears that Vanitas had decided to follow me. To find the young Ventus, I presume.”

“I…”

“As to be expected. The shadows always crawl towards their light.”

Somebody gasps. Vanitas sees them shift out of the corner of his eye. Their mouth opens in shock right before they edge away from the hallway’s turn. Whoever they were, it wasn’t Ventus - far too tall for their age -

 _Terra_ , a murmur from someone else. Ventus. Ventus, and he’s angry. _His name is_ _Terra_. _His name is Terra, this is my home, and what is someone like_ you _doing here?_

Everyone is so, so mad. He squeezes his eyes shut, listens to the them say things like…

“I’ll leave it to you, Xehanort. It is your responsibility, after all.”

_Get out._

“Following my trail, an open act of disobedience.”

There’s no keyblades, no monsters, but the threat of danger isn’t looming. Pain is going to follow; it must be what Vanitas deserves, to ignore something from Master Xehanort. Who was he kidding? It’s so dark, and Vanitas hates the dark. Why can’t he have his light?

 

 _Somewhere safe,_ he pleads. _Somewhere he’s not and won’t be..._

 

the clearing, his flowers come to mind, but the ash is on his tongue again

his things are not dead, worse, they’re weeds and nothing else belongs to a graveyard —

 

Where is his home?

Ventus has a home. Shouldn’t he? If so, where is his?

 

 

 

 

Vanitas thinks of a shoreline.

**•**

 

_“So can you promise me something?”_

_“I don’t know what a promise is.”_

_“It’s, mmn, I think it’s like an oath. Something that means that you will keep to your word… promise me that we’ll meet in the outside world.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi, welcome to an an obnoxiously long end note. congratulations to you for getting to the end notes. this chapters tl;dr: i heard you liked meta, so i put meta inside your meta 
> 
> really though, this was a pretty lore-heavy chapter which meant it took a lot of time to finish. there's a lot of concepts introduced here that we will be getting to, from literally everything about braig, vanitas being able to porta-darkessing to another world, and sora! we are almost done with the 'assume every chapter starts with a timeskip,' although ch.5 will pick up right where we left off for once. 
> 
> also. y'know how protagonists never ask the right questions or just don't ask anything at all and it infuriates people?vanitas is the opposite of that. anyway writing braig's dialogue was stupid fun and no i will not accept criticism for how many turn of phrases he uses. vanitas has to get it from somewhere. 
> 
> on a happier(?) note, i started [a spotify playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/tkhhgsmd7ml1bjunm1utnyjl1/playlist/2ShsZdm1s0BSiBIHRhL0VK?si=BArvPPs5RZqBPV9TrlFLQQ) for this fic! you are 100% allowed to make fun of my bad music taste in the comments. some of the lyrics can be kind of spoilery but i will say outright that _don't think twice_ is the overall song for this entire AU.


	5. distant from you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ _lean closer darling to receive the treasure map, the master key. you only have to reach for me to feel the flesh of history. i am the song and the seed and the spring. i am the spark that starts everything burning._ ](https://fourlarks.bandcamp.com/track/the-extravagant-entourage-of-the-queen-of-sheba)

**( vanitas )**

* * *

 

A shoreline; a beach; a sea. Water. Or, at least, Vanitas thinks that this is called water.

Whatever it is, definitely not a spell from Xehanort. That realization is fairly quick enough, given that icicles aren’t tearing into him. However, it can’t be the pure ocean either. Seawater isn’t flooding into his unnatural and flimsy lungs, thus he isn’t drowning. Nor is has he been beached, as the bodysuit feels dry to the touch. A gasp and Vanitas tastes the sweat, the humidity in the air. Once the throbbing in his eardrums calms, he can hear - a reoccurring noise that’s loud, boisterous. That must be the current. It’s nearby, it’s roaring, it’s just not close enough to feel.

A shadow, or maybe a pair of them, stand above his figure. Regardless of the intimacy, Vanitas can’t make out what they’re saying.

“… _rom nowhere_ -”

“- _’s hurt_ …”

There’s only the water.

Something innate tells him to follow. To get up and awake _._

Something else tells him to close his eyes. To go back and sleep _._

Vanitas tips his head away, and he finally slips. Quite literally, Vanitas falls unconscious. Vanitas plunges into the depths head-first, a deep dive. The hymn of nature fades as a white-gold, almost translucent stream gently carries him to an old tower. His boots are dangling above him, meaning that at some point, the current had flipped him upside down.

No blood rushes into his head. Somehow, he isn’t scared of falling.

Thankfully there is no impending collision. Uncertainly, his feet hover before taking that step onto the alien plane. In an instant, Vanitas’ body props itself upright. All of a sudden, he feels rigid and stiff, whereas the flow here was wholly relaxing. He pops a shoulder; unfortunately, the strain only settles into a present ache.

At last, Vanitas opens his eyes. It’s far too bright. He raises an arm, effectively shielding himself from the blinding white. It’s searing, the light that surrounds him on this small and dreary pillar. When he looks downward, casting the warmth away, he instead regards a vast blackness. On first glance, it’s hard to notice anything peculiar… but then he sees how the thin dark ink is inching _forward_ , or rather, descending. Ah.

Pure, unfiltered darkness. A black, downward spiral. Black against black. The otherworldly fluid cascades off the pillar, far into the distance.

This tower - it’s been fractured, seemingly again and again from its misshapen appearance. Numerous splints outline the shapes and figures of the glass, but there are a handful of cracks that arch and cut apart the seals.

He walks beside those sharp and denting wires, eyes widening in surprise at every piece of glass and the array of colors. It almost hurts to look at. Is he atop of artwork? Vanitas doesn’t have a name for many of these hues and shades. Black is the most recognizable.

In a moment, he startles. How mistaken was he? The thing that is entirely black - it isn’t a shadow resting atop of the pillar. It’s a person; rather, it’s _Vanitas_ , drawn oh so carefully. Drawn with small and thin lines, and with close attention to detail. Every limb, piece of fabric, all of his scarred and bruised body is depicted accurately. From the blood red of his pretend veins, which are fittingly embedded into his gold-brown skin, to the long length of his eyelashes, down to the dusting of his sun-kissed freckles on the broken bridge of his nose.

What is a swordsman without his blade? Because who could forget his keyblade? Void Gear rests upon his hip, and its lone cat-eye slowly rolls in its place. The pupil moves, matching Vanitas’ own footsteps; he is being watched. That sensation was cold, once, but now it is just his keyblade acting as a mute onlooker. If not for its inherent malice, Vanitas could almost call it protective.

“Hello?” He tries to call out. “Is somebody there? Anybody?”

Nothing. Nobody, aside from empty figureheads almost hidden behind his wayward hair. Nearly every disc is blank, save for only two. For the uppermost circle is filled with a sepia-colored portrait of none other but Master Xehanort.

Unsurprising. A shiver coils up his spine, tensing it.

The centerpiece has a peculiar insignia; the symbol portrays a heart in the background of two keyblades, which are inter-locked, crisscrossing each other. A deadlock; the keyblades are unable to move. He sits on his knees and leans forward. Then, Vanitas tilts his head to get a better look, but ultimately, he can’t fathom what it could possibly represent.

Otherwise, the remaining three are void of either character or symbol. When he brushes his fingertips against the vacant pieces of glass, something surges within the relenting confines of Vanitas’ tiny body.

Tears overwhelm his eyes. Why is he crying? He isn’t supposed to cry.

“I’m… sad,” he murmurs, voice dull.

No, that isn’t it. This isn’t anguish that’s tolling his heart - this is withdrawal. Loneliness. These spaces aren’t supposed to be unoccupied. Someone else is supposed to be here.

“Where did you go?”

Artwork demands expression; the overwhelming isolation brings him to tears that he cannot physically shed. Vanitas wipes at his face. He sniffles; he grimaces, a little grossed out at the fluid on his hands. Crying seems unpleasant. Inconvenient. Do regular humans have to deal with such messiness?

But that’s who saved him. A real human being. Their hearts are supposed to be bonded. Isn’t that what they said? They were supposed to be together. Loneliness is awful. He wants company. Until Vanitas can become whole again, and reconquer himself…

A reply, from the artwork. Those long, winding cracks illuminate. Brazed, the mass of gold encircles the summit, mending together the pieces that were broken apart. Upon inspection, it isn’t a fire or a speck of light radiating from the indents. Vanitas doesn’t have that power; he is the embodiment of such a lack.

These are their bonds. The illumination is an illusion, for what lies underneath the glass are unbreakable chains. Intertwined, unable to be separated or torn apart. It becomes very obvious, then - the person Vanitas needs, they need Vanitas too.

Who else could it be?

“Ven...tus?”

That’s not right, either.

The light fades. But his environment dims; sheds the all-encompassing sun for a better twilight. These aren’t the stars of his homeland, and they aren’t the internal fire of another world. Nevertheless, he’s seen these starry patterns before. The person he’s bonded to…

 _Don_ _’t be afraid. The door is still shut._

Vanitas shudders; the voice is monotone. It sounds like it’s coming from his head, and not from someone else’s mouth. Not at all comforting and not one he’d be able to place a name to. Perhaps the tone of an entity, rather than a person. It’s close to isolation.

“The door? The door to Kingdom Hearts?”

There isn’t a response. At least, not a normal one. All of Vanitas’ pain receptors flicker on, blaring that there is _fear_ and _threat_ close by.

He realizes that the glass is two-way. He stands atop, and something in slinking beneath. A creature is clawing out of the broken shards of glass.

 _Power sleeps within you. If you give it form, it will give you strength_.

_Use this power to protect yourself and others. There will be times where you have to fight._

Humanoid creatures, forms dripping in the blackest of colors. Their antennae is so large it dips down to the floor. Every limb in its body moves apart from the rest; when a forearm twitches, its leg scraps backwards. Vanitas feels a muscle in his chest constrict and relax in rapid beats, the rhythm of fear. These aren’t Unversed. They lack the symbol, the reminiscent overflow of unfiltered emotion; nonetheless Vanitas feels as though he’s been acquainted with these monsters. An instinctive step away, and the creatures salivate between each other.

Fear - adrenaline - bloodlust. Beads of sweat fall from his forehead. Vanitas remembers their nails acting as incisions in between his chest and his waist.

He died at the hands of these creatures. If he wants to survive, he must make sure that there are no other survivors.

Void Gear isn’t responding, because of course it isn’t. Hardly surprising. Yet, Vanitas isn’t scared. Terrified of the things before him, sure, but not at his lack of a keyblade. Because Void Gear was never meant to be his, even if it’s beneath his feet now.

A keyblade does emerge.

One answers his call, and Vanitas hears bells cry out and how the weight of all the worlds shifts onto his back. Many of the monsters cower, eyes widening at the sight of it. Gold, gleaming; two swords merged into one, with a unified whole as its edge. It is immeasurably heavy in his grasp, but the keyblade is kind and steady. Unlike Void Gear, this one does not seek violence, but it’s opposite. Salvation.

“The χ-blade,” Vanitas murmurs. Wonder; his eyes sparkle, akin to the glint of silver of the keyblade. “It’s been inside of me all along…?”

No. That isn’t right, either. It crackles, revealing an incomplete form between the wavering metal that Vanitas holds. Brown, and black, missing a handle and so much of it is broken. Just as the Master said; only their completion would beckon the χ-blade’s reappearance. For the χ-blade is not meant to be held by a person alone, but two. Why else would there be two handles?

For now, Vanitas grasps on the gold plate in-between. A single swing kills a good portion of the monsters. Although they combine and cooperate, no hivemind could defeat this type of collaboration.

They leave behind no corpse.

The hilt of the χ -blade points upwards. Vanitas reasons aloud, “If it’s here now, then I should be free.” His broken heart is resting against its own cage, his ribcage, and Vanitas’ blade wants to pry apart the metal of his metaphysical one.

 _Hold on. The door won_ _’t open just yet._

 _Your road won_ _’t be easy, but a rising sun awaits your journey’s end._

_The day the door opens is both far off and very near._

“What am I supposed to do? What do you want from me?” He jumps at an unexpected sound. While they no longer glimmer, the chains remain. They’re in motion, shifting against one another.

Apparently, to their origin. Back to the canvas; the artwork of Vanitas.

A significant shard of glass is shaped as a crescent moon. This space is dedicated to the land of another world unbeknownst to Vanitas; it isn’t the dry and familiar wasteland of the Keyblade Graveyard, nor does it have the strangle bustle of the Land of Departure.

Vanitas peers between the shifting lines, and realizes that they’re moving because they’re _waves_. His heart is representing a tide. In the right-hand corner, there’s a massive star that is hanging off what must be leaves. The colors are vibrant, akin to those of Ven’s homeworld.

Is this…

Is this where Vanitas was born? His birthplace?

 _The closer you get to light, the greater your shadow becomes. But don_ _’t be afraid - you hold the mightiest weapon of all. And don’t forget - someone will open the door._  

Beneath his feet, the cracks begin to widen. The world falls out from underneath. The χ -blade falls out of his fingers in the end, as is destiny’s design.

“You should join your heart with mine.”

**•**

 

“…‘is not moving.”

Quiet, but still audible, a voice - a question. “What now?”

A stranger, speaking in a likewise hushed tone. “Mm. Run away.”

“Huh? No! Wiku!” Childlike voices…

Slowly, Vanitas wakes. Sleep covers his eyes and he closes them with a groan. The sun is suddenly bright and it burns to simply perceive. His head is ringing, the sound loud, and the make-believe skin between his temple and his scalp feels so awfully tender. Oh, he must’ve been knocked out cold. It might have been a bad squabble with an Unversed. OR an unfortunate end to training with Master Xehanort? Vanitas nearly calls for Void Gear, but thinks better of it. How long was he unconscious, anyway?

Then the tide arrives. The water reels back almost immediately, but the sensation alone is jarring. Magic has always been all-consuming, leaving him to shiver in its wake. This water is coy, teasing. A stream… it reminds him of the one in the dream,

 _Hey_ _… where am I?_ Vanitas rubs the palm of his hand against his eyelids.

“Oh! He’s up!”

When, at last, Vanitas manages to pry all the sleep off, he looks further from this unusual sun. The plantlife is new. Unfamiliar vegetation. There are stars in these trees, and they’re fairly large for measly fruit. The grasses of this land are blindingly green, and the sky itself is ever so blue. When he breathes, he doesn’t intake dust or ash - just crisp, crisp air. And he’s _cold_ \- better yet, damp. Wasn’t he dry when he arrived?

Stepping outside of the shore helps somewhat, and the kid duo mercifully give him space. They both take several steps backward, inching towards the grassland. Finally, he acknowledges the children properly; neither of them would come up to his hip, and their expressions range from wide-eyed with wonder and apprehension. A full spectrum.

It occurs to Vanitas, then, that he’s never really met another kid. Making eye contact with a stranger who quickly bolted, that doesn’t count. Maybe once, he corrects himself, as that notion is inexplicably wrong, but he must have been terribly young.

Nobody says anything, either out of fear or excitement. Vanitas’ gaze repeatedly trails to the brown-haired one; he’s the one who’s fascinated by Vanitas. The same hair-color as that child in the corridor, he thinks. As for his silver-haired friend, he’s worrying his lip; this is the one who is terrified of Vanitas. Both reactions are strange.

 _Darkness_.

Potent enough to taste. As nonsensical as it is, Vanitas can feel the significant amount of darkness rolling from both of their young hearts. Momentarily, he chokes on the feeling; because that is the main ingredient of darkness, the purest and most unabashed of emotions. Of course youth would have ample amounts of - feelings.

For a reason that escapes Vanitas then, it is the darkness of the boy with Terra’s haircolor that primarily concerns him. Something tells Vanitas that those emotions do not belong to the kid alone; that within him, the child is festering another’s rage. Caring for it, as though it is his to comfort and maintain.

Is that - is that even possible? Who are these children?

He swallows down the lump in his throat. “You two…where am I?”

The smaller boy perks up immediately, as if hearing Vanitas’ voice is very reassuring. “Play island! Mom took us!”

“Play…island. Never heard of it.” _How did I end up here, of all places? Why am I here?_ Vanitas rubs a temple, in an attempt to focus. Sadly, and perhaps fittingly, nothing comes to mind.

“Never seen you before, not til you fell. Where you come from?” Silver hair, steely eyes, just as cold as his demeanor. Jeez.

“Wiku! Meanie!”

“Sora—” Exasperated, the kid rolls his eyes. Unfazed, the kid named Sora crosses his arms and pouts. His friend moves his feet from side-to-side, apprehensively. “I’m _Riku_ , and we aren’t supposed to talk to strangers…”

Quite dramatically, Sora gestures to Vanitas. Just - Vanitas in general, body and all. He waves his tiny little hands about. “But he’s hurt!”

Vanitas blinks.

“I am?” Sore? Sure. Aghast? Obviously, and who could blame him? Dreading the consequences of his misbehavior and fearing for his spine? Of course. But hurt? Maybe the children assume that he has blood, or bruises. Ordinary, everyday humans have those. Or so he’s been told.

“I can feel it.” Sora’s mouth trembles. “Sumthin’ bad happened. Feels it.” He presses his hands to his eyes and rubs at them; ashamed of his own tears, most likely. And Riku must be his friend, because Riku gently places a hand on Sora’s shoulder, steadying him.

Briefly, Riku glances at Vanitas. Clearly not wanting to explain, but he does regardless. “Sora’s always in pain,” Riku murmurs. “But he’s never ever hurt. His muth- moth- his mom calls him an empath.”

He feels his brows furrow. “What’s that?”

Riku shrugs. “I dunno. Thought an older kid would. Sora, you good?”

“Mhm,” he hums. His eyes are ringed red and his cheeks are glistening wet, but Sora is smiling again and casually swaying in place. “Sorry, Wiku.”

“It’s Riku.”

“Wiku’s my best friend,” Sora says suddenly, turning to face Vanitas. “Wuh about you?”

Vanitas points to himself. “Me?”

“Yeah! Who’s your best friend?”

For a moment, Vanitas thinks about it. Friends… it sure would be nice to have some. These kids are immeasurably lucky. “I don’t have one. I don’t have friends, actually.” He doesn’t try to hide his envy.

“O-oh.” Both Sora and Riku look taken aback. Sora’s lip is trembling, like he’s going to have another fit, and Riku is holding his hand to his chin in thought. “How come?” Sora prompts.

“You’re weird,” Riku interjects. Sora - playfully? - hits him on the arm, but Riku shakes him off. This kid really doesn’t mince words. “Sora, it’s ‘cause nobody never seen him before. Oh, and he’s kinda mean too.”

Sora’s mouth falls open in the same instant that Vanitas bursts into laughter, with a hand clutching at his stomach. Wow.

 _“RIKU_!” This time, Sora seriously shoves him. Riku stumbles, but quickly regains his footing and snorts at his friend. They’re egging one another on, as Sora soon begins to smack at every inch of Riku and Riku is constantly side-stepping him. “Say- sorry!”

“We’re not supposed to lie!”

“Grr! You’re mean!”

“Whatcha gonna do?” He sticks out his tongue. Sora pauses, considering just what he should do, and then yanks at Riku’s tongue. “Owch! Sowa!”

Sora tugs at him, still holding Riku’s tongue in between his fingers. Pinching it, too, and Riku is reflexively wincing at each jab. “Not stoppin’! Not ‘til you say sorry!”

“Let go offa my tonguh!”

“Nu — _ewwww_! Gross!” Although Riku had to sink to the depths of his dignity – via licking Sora’s fingers - he stands proud with his tongue firmly back in his mouth. “Ugh!”

Sora wipes off the spit onto his shorts. Shorts? Vanitas is in his bodysuit, and he doesn’t feel too hot. Maybe someone’s cut off these kids’ pants…

“Sorry,” Riku says, unprompted. Vanitas and Sora both glance at him. He shrugs, again. “Just don’t tell my mom. Deal?”

“Fiiiiine,” Sora whines. But their friendship is quickly reconciled, and Sora happily stands by his best friend’s side once more. “But hey! We can be fwiends!”

“We don’t know his name, Sora…”

“My name is Vanitas,” he says. Riku mouths the name to himself, and frowns, like he doesn’t like how it fits. Sora mumbles, quiet.

Then – “OK! Vani!”  

The child clearly does not expect for Vanitas to flick his forehead. “Ow! That’s mean, Vani-tis.”

“Ugh. Vani is better, actually. Work on your pronunciation sometime.”

“Pronoun…” Sora glances over to Riku, presumably for an explanation, and receives a meek shrug. “Uh?”

“How… old are you guys?

Sora proudly holds up his fingers. “Three!”

Riku calmly reaches over and brings up another finger. “We’re four.” Rather befuddled, Sora tilts his head at Riku - who quietly says, as in aside, that he’s not talking about anything particularly important. He lets go of Sora’s hand and Sora curiously flexes his fingers, gaping at them.

“You?” Riku questions.

“I’m… seven, I think. That sounds right.”

That distracts Sora from the mysteries of his own anatomy. He squints at Vanitas, curious. “Ya think?”

“Well, do you know your age for sure?” Vanitas counters. Clearly not, given earlier. But Sora puffs his chest out, unwilling to admit otherwise.

“Vani _is_ weird.”

Riku grins. “Told you.”

Vanitas crosses his arms. Sora makes an _ooo_ sound, delighted by – what? Him being irritated? Or his muscles? These two really are kids. “It’s not like you guys are much better. Like, what even happened to your pants?”

“Paaaants?” Sora tilts his head. “Oh, jeans?”

“Why wear pants? It’s like, a thousand degrees out.”

“Wiku, it’s like… a billion.”

“No, Sora.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well. it's been a few months. 
> 
> irl things have gotten, dare i say, incredibly chaotic. [i'm trying to keep up with VSmondays on twitter,](https://twitter.com/vsmondays) which y'all should totally take a look at if you haven't, but otherwise i'm doing my best to stay afloat. deadlock isn't dead - hah - yet, and i don't have any plans to abandon it. so... 
> 
> until the next update, here's a few questions. i thought it would be fun to start some speculation in the comments. there are correct answers, but seeing your guesses would be interesting. 
> 
> 1\. prior to the ending of chapter 3, what did you think vanitas' eye color was? 
> 
> 2\. did you notice that aqua was the one to initially call ventus 'ven,' instead of terra? why do you think that is?
> 
> 3\. why did xehanort change his mind on specifying the unversed? 
> 
> 4\. if vanitas' station of awakening references destiny islands, what do you think ven's station has as its homeland? 
> 
> 5\. finally, who/what was speaking to vanitas in his station of awakening?


End file.
